


The Son of Sherrinford

by SherlockWho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottoming from the Top, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Smut, Virgin!Sherlock, but it's not bad, john gets shot, mary's not a nice girl, some come play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4965112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWho/pseuds/SherlockWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a tale of a nephew, a case, a camera phone, an assassin, and true love.</p><p>Sherlock's nephew comes to stay a while.  John, freshly returned to Baker Street, has a strange panic disorder and a missing wife.  And everyone is ridiculously stubborn and as ridiculous as you've come to expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Nephew

# Chapter 1: The Nephew

 

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Come on now.”

“Oh. I see. You think I’m joking.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I’m not joking.”

John looked at the letter in his hand.  He’d never seen anything like it; handwritten on very, _very_ official-looking stationery complete with watermarks and raised seals, signed by _the British government_ himself.

“You . . .you have a nephew.”

“Obviously.”

John carefully pulled the second page out from behind that impressive letter.  It was a birth certificate.

“Ramsay Sherwood Charles Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything more.  He sat in his chair and plucked idly at his violin.

“Why can’t Mycroft take him in?”

Sherlock sighed, an expulsion of air that had apparently grown stale in his lungs.  The words he spoke next were all carried on that exhale, tumbling too fast past his lips: “Apparently being a central member of the British government forces him to keep inconsistent hours at work and he feels that having a teenager in his house might compromise security and certain state secrets.”  He gestured at John’s hands.  “It’s all there in the letter.”

John read aloud from the letter: “ _As you can appreciate, the nature of my work requires a certain level of discretion.  My life is not my own; I am in eternal and constant service to the family and country I serve.  As such I cannot guarantee that young Ramsay would get the attention he deserves.”_

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

“And your parents?”

“Saddling them with a teenager at this time in their lives would be . . .unkind.”

John bit down on his retort.  “Because of what happened to his father.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes.”

John nodded.  “Yeah, I can see how that might be a bit much for them.”

Sherlock pressed his steepled fingertips against his lips and remained silent. 

John frowned.  It was his turn, then.  That was Sherlock’s signal to John that he had to _do something_ , it was time to act, make a decision, stop deliberating and _talking_. 

Sherlock wasn’t wrong.  John was reasonably sure he had enough information to go on with.  It was all new, but it was easily digestible and there were signed and notarized documents attached.

The documents advised that Sherlock once had another brother, one older than him but younger than Mycroft, named Sherrinford Holmes. This brother had been a far more passionate incarnation of the Holmes type: still possessing that odd über-genius, but “more emotional and given to the same faults as the rest of humanity,” as Sherlock described him—which meant he would do a thing from the heart and then try to justify or cover it up from the mind, a spectacular failing for a logical man.  This resulted in a spiraling rebellion against Mycroft’s attempts to control him, all culminating in the secret courtship and eventual impregnation of a diplomat’s daughter.  Naturally, the diplomatic relationship in question had been strained already, and Sherrinford’s indiscretion had nearly started World War 3.  The only way to prevent outright chaos had been to send this Holmes off on a doomed secret mission deep into the heart of the country whose trust he’d violated in the first place.  No one had seen or heard from him since.

And here, then, was the product of that illicit union, this teenager named Ramsay Holmes.  John pulled out his photo again.  He was very clearly a Holmes: pale skinned, apparently tall, and so broody he could probably hatch his own eggs.  He had a great, unruly mop of ginger curls and clear bottle-green eyes.  He clearly didn’t know how to smile.

“So . . .he’ll be staying here, then?”

“Until he’s able to find an acceptable school with a dormitory.”

John shrugged, trying to affect indifference, but he was furious inside and he was sure Sherlock saw it.  “Right, of course, pack him off to school so you don’t have to deal with him.”

“You’re angry.”

“Got it in one.”

“Why would you be . . . _angry_ . . .about this?”

“Why aren’t _you_ angry about this?  Your brother sent your _other brother_ off to die on some mission—”

John’s face blanched and he felt his hands grow numb.  It was stunning; he suddenly remembered a goodbye on the tarmac and the few details Sherlock had given him about where he was going and what he would be doing.

Sherlock answered this with a mad flurry of activity.  He leapt out of his chair and took John by the shoulders.  “John, listen.”

“No. Sherlock.”  John felt fire in his throat.  His mind was being sucked into a straw.  His muscles were locking up.

“John, stop.  Breathe.”

John shut his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.  It was getting worse, this strange panic disorder that had manifested full strength after his pure lie of a wife had disappeared into the night during the confusion surrounding the return of Moriarty.  His wife and the child he later discovered, via careful study of her medical records, wasn’t his.  Since that event he’d moved back to Baker Street, and while that was odd enough—in the way it made him feel at home, in control again, and the captain of the Ship to Madness—it didn’t explain why he felt smothered, buried, and on the verge of snapping.  Everything seemed to be a trigger for this condition, from the sight of a woman holding a newborn infant in her arms to, apparently, his best friend basically confessing something he had almost been dispatched on a suicide mission, right in the middle of asking John to decide if it was okay if a teenaged nephew came to live with them.

“Sherlock.”

“Breathe.”  Sherlock was rocking John back and forth now, from his heels to his toes and back again, and he seemed to be gaining speed.

“I’m breathing—let—go—of—me.”

Sherlock stopped the crazy pendulum of motion, but kept his eyes fixed on John’s face.

“Thank you.”  John demonstrated his rediscovered calm by taking a deep breath and returning Sherlock’s scrutiny.  “You were going to.”  _Deep breath._   “You were going to . . . _die_.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Mycroft advised six months.”

It was amazing, John thought as his consciousness once again grew fuzzy and a bit stretched.  Since Mary’s disappearance, it was simply _amazing_ how Sherlock had committed to this new level of honesty.  He could have lied just now and John would have been forced to accept it.  Worse, he could have joked it away and said something about the (obviously untrue) incompetence of Mycroft’s field work estimates.  He didn’t do that.  He’d just shrugged and told the truth.

“Six months.”  John pressed his lips together and clutched hard to Sherlock’s forearm.  “You might have been dead in six months if Moriarty hadn’t come back.”

Sherlock stared at him for several seconds before giving him a curt nod.

“God, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Can we please not do this, John?”

“Do what?”

“Allow our anxiety over things that did not come to pass to cloud our current discussion?”

John shook his head slowly.  “Your brother was going to send you off to _die_.”

“Yes, like he had done to Sherrinford.”

“Yeah, that might be a good reason for Mycroft to not take him in, since _he sent his da off to die.”_

John cupped his hands over his mouth and took several more deep breaths.  His lungs were no longer on autopilot; he had to send the signals to his body to _breathe_ now.  He missed having autonomic responses like normal human beings had.

_Face it, mate,_ his subconscious crowed from its bunker deep underground, the only safe place in the minefield of his life, _you’ve never been normal._

“We aren’t done talking about this,” John groaned. 

“Fine.  We’ll discuss it along with all of my other grievous shortcomings as a friend some other time.”

John gave him a hard look, but shook his head.  “Where will he sleep?”

Sherlock smiled, and wasn’t that just like him?  Sherlock _could_ smile, because with that one question John had clearly moved past _if_ and into _how_.  He’d given up already and the battle had barely begun.

But since he’d returned to Baker Street it had been thus.  He didn’t have the strength to fight with Sherlock anymore, and he knew that was affecting their dynamic.  John had always been the one who kept Sherlock in line, who accommodated, sure, but with expectations that he wouldn’t be a total monster with anyone.

Then again, Sherlock hadn’t exactly been a monster, not since John had come back.  Hell, he’d been keeping relatively tight control over his monster since the wedding, if John was being honest.  This Sherlock hardly seemed to be the same person as the one who’d jumped from Bart’s.  He was softer, less abrasive, and far more considerate of John and his day-to-day struggle to come to terms with how extravagantly _fucked up_ his life had become.

So they were careful with each other, so careful, so accommodating, and yet somehow so distant.  That didn’t really make sense, though, did it?  They weren’t physically distant; in fact, they were closer than ever.  They dashed off on cases, they rode in taxis, they ate takeaway over experiments.  They brushed against each other repeatedly during the day.  John hadn’t missed that fascinating little factoid, which meant Sherlock hadn’t missed it either.  They brushed, close enough to comfort and reassure, but not close enough for friction.

And maybe it was the lack of friction that made it feel _distant_.

Sherlock shrugged.  “Sofa.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’ve been assured it’s his preferred sleeping arrangement.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“There’s nowhere else, John.”

“I could—”

“If that sentence ends in any scenario in which you do not inhabit this flat, then it is hereby roundly rejected.”

“221C?”

“No.”

“You’re not being realistic.”

“He’s here long enough to get his life together and test for uni placement.  Once we get him together, he’ll be gone again.”

“Why are you being like this?  I can make temporary—”

“I approached you, John, so we can discuss how to make it work, having my nephew here with us, _both_ of us.  This is your home.  If we cannot accommodate him I will inform Mycroft.  But.”  Sherlock swallowed and blinked a few times, and John recognized it as his _sentiment makes me uncomfortable_ face.  It was almost disturbing how that expression had become . . .well, _adorable_ to John.  Sherlock shook himself loose from his temporary sentiment-lock and resumed.  “You promised.  You moved back in and promised you wouldn’t move out again.”

John remembered.  He forced himself to breathe as he remembered that night:

_“John?”_

_“Yeah.  Hi.  I, er.”_

_“You’re moving back in.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Mary?”_

_“Gone.”_

_“Oh. Do you want . . .should we . . .?”_

_“She left a note.”_

_“Ah.”_

_“So, no need.  She doesn’t want to be found.”_

_“I’m sorry, John.”_

_“I’ve got one thing to say, Sherlock. Just one thing.  I want you to hear me out, because . . .I need to get this out, and if I don’t do it now I don’t know if I’ll have the ability to any other time.  You made us a vow, didn’t you?  Me and Mary.  You would be there for us, no matter what happened, was that it?  Right, so I’m saying this now: I’m not going anywhere.  I mean to live here as long as you’ll allow it, because if I have to live with a sociopath—which you told me, yes you did, I chose her because it’s what I want, that’s what you said—if I have to do this, I’d rather deal with the sociopath I know than have to figure another one out again, okay?  I don’t want to go through that again.”_

_“I understand.”_

_“Right.  Ta.”_

_“Tea?”_

“I remember my promise,” he said, forcing himself to look Sherlock in the eye.  “And I’m not going back on my promise.”

“Right.  So we make this decision together, whether or not my nephew will be staying with us.  It’s _our_ decision, because this flat is _ours_.”

John looked around the flat, _their_ flat, and saw the truth of what Sherlock had said in every nook and corner: shared life, shared passions, shared space.  He adored every item there, even the items Sherlock had burnt in pursuit of some academic truth, or the items he’d discarded and allowed to lay forgotten under the sofa, or the items he’d persistently commandeered because he was a prat and couldn’t be arsed to ask permission for anything.

Except, apparently, moving a relative into their space.

“Right, fine, okay.  Your nephew will stay with us and he’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Sherlock smiled, and _god_ wasn’t that awful, the way it made John feel?  That smile was a lovely thing.  And yes, it was _all fine_ , John could admit that Sherlock was a good-looking bloke, there wasn’t anything gay about admitting that. 

But there might be, just a little bit, a tiny smidge of something gay about the way Sherlock’s smiles made him feel.  He wanted them all.  He wanted to be the reason for them all.

_Dangerous_.

_“I said dangerous, and here you are.”_

John shook himself.  “So, when?”

“As soon as you’re comfortable.”

“We don’t have a case on,” John said, giving his best friend a tight smile.  “No time like the present.”


	2. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ramsay, welcome to Baker Street,” John said.

# Chapter 2: Welcome Home

 

Ramsay arrived in a long black saloon as promised at noon the next day.  He was as awkward and tall and unkempt as the surveillance photos they’d received indicated he would be, but his lineage was apparent immediately; his eyes were light green and shrewd, his cheekbones were lethal, and he seemed to be a bundle of barely-suppressed energy, fingers drumming against his leg and weight being constantly redistributed through his stance.  He shook hands with John and Sherlock, then immediately proceeded to belittle both of them non-verbally via an agenda of resentful staring and dismissive grunts.

“Ramsay, welcome to Baker Street,” John said.

Ramsay nodded in acknowledgement of John’s welcome, and nodded again when John offered to help him with his things.  He had a giant military-style duffel bag, a guitar bag (presumably containing a guitar, but knowing this family it could have been a Kalashnikov rifle), a backpack, and what appeared to be swords made of some sort of blond wood.

“What is this?” John asked, inclining his head at the two swords.

“Practice katana,” Sherlock said.  “Apparently Young Lord Holmes is into martial arts.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes at the jab and looked at the door.  His eyes narrowed.  John followed his line of sight to the askew door knocker.

“Don’t straighten that,” John said good-naturedly.  “It’s how we know when Mycroft has been ‘round.”

Clearly that was the wrong thing to say.  Ramsay’s fingers had curled around the knocker, but at the mention of the elder Holmes brother’s name he jerked the knocker hard in the other direction.

“Oi! Don’t break it!” John said.

Ramsay shot him a dark look over his shoulder.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock said, his voice calm and low.  Ramsay started to glare at him, but the look Sherlock gave him forbade such insolence, so he started through the door.

“Oh! Sherlock!” came a sunny greeting from the door of 221A.

 _Oh no_ , John thought.

“Is this your nephew?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She had on her dishwashing gloves and was holding a bowl and a flannel in her hands.  “So nice to meet you!”

John had already decided that he would run interference between this awful teenager and Mrs. Hudson; she deserved better than a _second_ scowling scarecrow to look after.  He was surprised to find Ramsay’s face transformed by a wide smile.

“You must be Mrs. Hudson,” he said, his voice warm and gentle.  If Sherlock’s voice was deep and rich like a mine full of gold, Ramsay’s seemed to be bright and sweet like a summer meadow full of flowers.  “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Flatterer,” she said, blushing prettily.  “I’ll get you tea this once, but don’t take advantage.  I’m not your housekeeper.”

“No, no,” Ramsay said, setting his backpack down on the floor of the foyer.  “I’ll make tea.  Join us upstairs, won’t you?  Fifteen minutes?”

John blinked hard.  _Who the hell was this kid?_

“Well, er, yes, okay,” she said, turning back to her flat.  “Be there shortly.”

John turned to Sherlock, who was frowning at their charge.  He mouthed, _What the hell was that?_

“Diplomat’s grandson,” Sherlock murmured softly.

“Like _he_ could be arsed to notice I existed,” Ramsay said as he collected his backpack and trudged up the seventeen steps to their flat behind John.

“There’s a story there,” John said, shouldering the door open so he could shove the duffel through it. 

“Not good enough for the blog, I’d wager,” Sherlock added, deftly wielding the katana and setting them in the same corner of the flat as the harpoon.

Ramsay dropped his backpack in John’s chair and proceeded directly to the kitchen.  He filled the kettle and switched it on, then started rifling through the cabinets.

“Tea is on the right over the hob,” John said, “and the service is to the right of the refrigerator.”

Ramsay nodded and efficiently set about preparing the cups.  “Honey?”

“Not sugar?” asked Sherlock.

Ramsay frowned.  “Sugar?  Refined sugar?”  He then shrugged and gave them his best _whatever, die at your own speed_ look before fetching down the sugar as well.

Five minutes later Mrs. Hudson entered with her traditional coo, and both John and Sherlock were astonished by how quickly Ramsay transformed into a proper gentleman; he escorted her to Sherlock’s chair and made her comfortable before bringing her the full tea service accompanied by an assortment of biscuits, which he set up on the small round table in easy reach of her.  He then removed his backpack from John’s chair and sat across from her, asking solicitous questions about her hip and the tea and the weather until she was blushing and as delighted as a schoolgirl.  It was only while she was leaving, Ramsay tagging behind her and promising to pop round her flat first thing in the morning to change out some light bulbs in her kitchen, that John realized neither he nor Sherlock had contributed anything to the impromptu tea with their landlady.

Sherlock reclaimed his chair and, when Ramsay reappeared in the door, said, “Impressive.”

Ramsay nodded, once again the taciturn, moody teen.

“We have ground rules,” John said, trying to find a way to re-establish some sort of structure to this Very Strange Day.

Both of the Holmeses in the flat turned to him with wide, expectant eyes.

“Right.” John cleared his throat.  His hands were flexing into and out of fists.  “First, don’t lie. Second, don’t take anything.”

The teenager groaned and threw himself onto the sofa in a very familiar way, one that indicated he was on the verge of slipping into a massive sulk.  “Let me guess,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.  “The rest of them are: don’t drink and drive, don’t take candy from strangers, and clean up after myself.”

John’s lips disappeared into a thin line.  This wasn’t cute or funny.  This was annoying.

“Should I also not barge in on you?”

John’s face turned red.  “On what, exactly?” he asked, his voice millpond calm.

Sherlock saw the rage building in his eyes.  “He’s trying to be amusing, John.  Don’t—”

“It’s not amusing, Sherlock.  It’s insulting.”

“Why would you be insulted?” asked the moody collection of limbs currently sprawled across the sofa.  “I was hoping to save you time.  I understand how to be a good tenant.”

“Barge. In. On. What?” John asked slowly.

Ramsay smiled.  “It was a joke, Dr. Watson.  I’ll refrain from them in future.”

John nodded sharply, then changed his mind and shook his head.  “Nope. I’m going out.” He quickly crossed the room and grabbed his jacket.

“What? Why?” asked Sherlock as John shoved past him.

“Need some air,” he answered on his way out the door.

 

 


	3. The Things Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opened his eyes again and breathed deeply, trying to get things under control. Their living situation had become confusing enough with the addition of a Holmesian teenager. He didn’t want to spoil it with too-obvious . . .what? Pining? How embarrassing. He was a goddamn soldier, he shouldn’t be pining after anyone.

# Chapter 3: The Things Between Us

 

It wasn’t that the jokes were new.  It was that, unlike before, John didn’t know what to do with them.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he made his way through Regent’s Park.  He thought back to the way he used to handle the insinuations that he and Sherlock were more than the best of friends and work partners.  He’d grown more and more comfortable with it as time went on; hell, at one point, during his wedding to Mary, he’d even contributed by ribbing that learning to dance with Sherlock Holmes had launched any number of new rumors.  He had been so proud of himself that he no longer felt the need to soothe his own sexuality by responding to all of it with prickly retorts.

He missed that sense of casual assurance.

Because all of John’s illusions about himself and how he fit into the lives of those he cared about had disappeared with his lying wife and her child.  He wasn’t a husband or father.  He wasn’t some hero, trying to save her from herself.  He was the same invalided doctor with trust issues, but this time he also had a panic disorder and an uncomfortable . . . _thing_ . . .with his flatmate and best friend, a _thing_ that he couldn’t so easily define, and it therefore resisted being made light of.  He was defensive and snappish, because the _thing_ was cutting too close to his heart.

He stopped at York Bridge and watched the couples and young families stroll the Inner Circle.  He’d aspired to that, once: the comfortable anonymity that came with being happy and in love.  He’d had it for a little while.  Mary had been exactly right, as qualifications went.  She’d been petite, pretty, funny (in that sarcastic way he appreciated), and intelligent.  She’d certainly proved herself a match for Sherlock Holmes, and he’d become insanely aroused by the sight of her holding her own, calling out Sherlock on his fibs, and being supportive of their friendship.  It was a shock, but hardly a surprise, that all of that arousal had resulted in a pregnancy.  It had been a crushing, heartbreaking disappointment that neither she nor their baby had been real.

But Sherlock was there, as real and authentic as ever.  John hadn’t been kidding during his little speech to Sherlock when he moved back in that he had no interest in putting himself out there again emotionally.  The risk of being crushed by another lying psychopath was higher for him, since yes, it was apparently true he craved that kind of thing.  Besides, he’d far rather stick to his comfort zone, day-in and day-out with the self-proclaimed sociopath with the enormous heart, than give it up for sex.

 _Ah, that’s the thing, though, isn’t it?_ His libido whispered from where he’d locked it up.  _Sex.  I miss sex._   And he did.  Sex was so _good_.  He was a doctor, and he knew the body, and he loved how the body had its own rhythms, and if you knew your partner and could get them to relax and just roll with their rhythm . . .well.  John took a deep breath and tried to tamp down on his arousal—

But then he thought again about Sherlock and things got confused, and before he knew what was happening he found himself daydreaming about a long, lithe, hard-muscled body writhing beneath his own as he patiently coaxed it into its own groove, as he rode that wave, as he took and gave and—

 _Shit_.  He looked around at the almost too-bright day around him and clamped his eyes shut.  This was getting worse.  He’d already lost control of his urge to masturbate to these disturbing fantasies of his very male flatmate, but that kind of thing happened under cover of darkness in the privacy of his room, and it didn’t seem real.  Now, though, the fantasies are overflowing the boundaries he’d set around them, and it made his heretofore rock-solid heterosexuality a little less so, and if he didn’t find a healthy outlet soon they might compromise this wonderful arrangement.  That wasn’t acceptable at all.

He opened his eyes again and breathed deeply, trying to get things under control.  Their living situation had become confusing enough with the addition of a Holmesian teenager.  He didn’t want to spoil it with too-obvious . . .what?  _Pining?_   How embarrassing.  He was a goddamn soldier, he shouldn’t be _pining_ after anyone.

Then his subconscious interrupted him and reminded him of the month after Sherlock’s fall from Bart’s, and the wires got crossed again.

_You were a damned widower, you know that, right?  The way you were carrying on, the crying and screaming and depression.  To any casual and not-so-casual observer it was clear you were dying of a broken heart, if you recall, Dr. Watson._

And somehow the voice of his subconscious sounded entirely too much like Mycroft Holmes.

Right. If there was nothing else in the world that could turn off his confused arousal, it was that.  He grew calm and his mind cleared.  They had to get Ramsay settled in, tested, and off to face his future, that was all.  _One step at a time, Watson_ , he thought, then smiled.  He could do this.  One step at a time.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to find a text message waiting for him:

_Call from Lestrade.  Case.  Sounds like a 6, but might be enough of a distraction. Care to join? SH_

John smiled.  Ah, the Work.  When it doubt, return to the work.

_Sure. Where?_

_We won’t leave without you, just get here quickly. SH_

_We?_

_Bringing Ramsay. SH_

Huh. That was new. 

_3 minutes._

John smiled and set off for Baker Street as quickly as his legs could carry him.

 

 


	4. The Toxicity of Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay knelt gracefully beside the two bodies and looked them over. If John was expecting some overwhelming genius commentary, as he’d come to rely on from Sherlock, he was soon disappointed by Ramsay’s next words: “Yes, they’re definitely both dead.”
> 
> Sherlock huffed. “Was it the evisceration that killed them, do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the trailing intestines that were strung between them.

# Chapter 4: The Toxicity of Secrets

 

The cab ride to the crime scene was spent in silence.  Ramsay was caught up in something that was happening on his mobile, but from the way he was holding it he was likely watching a video on YouTube (he had his earbuds in, otherwise John would have known immediately).  Sherlock, per his usual practice, was impatiently staring out the window of the cab, lost in his own thoughts.  John was in the jump seat across from Sherlock and he realized, somewhat belatedly, that choosing this seat might have been a mistake, especially considering the not-so-platonic turns his wandering mind had followed lately.

 _And there it goes again_ , John thought tiredly as he noted that one of Sherlock’s long legs had stretched out.  His foot was nestled between John’s legs in the tight space.  John was a military man and he knew how to mask undesirable human weaknesses, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d successfully be able to hide all this from his flatmate, the man who was the most observant person John had ever met.

They arrived at a small flat in Soho just after seven in the evening to find Lestrade, Donovan, and the new forensics team already on site.  Lestrade was apparently flustered and John noted the intentional way he glanced at his wristwatch as Sherlock made his dramatic appearance, his coat sweeping around him in charcoal grace.

“You do realize there’s now a time limit to holding off the team?” Lestrade asked.

“Thank you ever so much for accommodating us,” Sherlock said, with the definite intention reading as _you called me, remember?_

“Greg,” John said with a nod.

“John,” Greg said, then scowled.  “Who’s this?”

“My nephew,” Sherlock said.  “Ramsay Holmes.”

“Hullo,” Ramsay said with a nod.

“Oi!” Donovan said as she came closer.  “You can’t just bring more and more people round.”

“Evening, Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said. 

Lestrade peered at the Holmes-and-Watson party.  “What’s he here for then?” he asked.

“Observation.”

“Training?”

“Not impossible.”

John shot Ramsay a glance and saw that he wore the tell-tale smirk of a Holmes.

Lestrade shrugged.  “Might not hurt to have two of them,” he muttered.  “Go on, then.”

Sherlock gave Donovan another look, one that clearly indicated she should step aside—and she did, with a frown and a disapproving glare at her commanding officer.  Then Sherlock looked at Ramsay.  He was cold as only a Holmes could be.  “Well?” he asked.

Ramsay knelt gracefully beside the two bodies and looked them over.  If John was expecting some overwhelming genius commentary, as he’d come to rely on from Sherlock, he was soon disappointed by Ramsay’s next words: “Yes, they’re definitely both dead.”

Sherlock huffed.  “Was it the evisceration that killed them, do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the trailing intestines that were strung between them.

Ramsay frowned.  “Actually, no,” he said.

“No?” John asked, bending at the knees so he could get a better look himself.

“No,” Ramsay said, finally engaging his eyes the way Holmes men did when they had locked on to a fascinating new puzzle.  “The incision is too clean, there’s no blood welling here,” he said, gesturing to the cuts in both abdomens.  “These two were already dead.”  He scrambled around on the floor, trying to get a better look at the two corpses.  John was busy scratching in his notebook:

_Male, early 40s, average build, blond hair.  Female, late 30s, tall and thin, brunette, posh._

“Here,” Ramsay said.  He was pointing at the woman’s right wrist.  It was dark with congealed blood, but the long incision was hard to miss.

“Where’s the blood?” Lestrade asked.  “I mean, if they’d bled out there should be pools of blood, but—”

“Sir,” Donovan called from the doorway to what looked like a storage cupboard, “here’s your answer.”

They followed her through the door.  It wasn’t a cupboard; it was a nursery.  The crib was so out of place in this house of death that it took John’s breath away.

 _That was the crib I’d bought,_ he thought.  It was a common enough crib, the Gonatt crib from IKEA, Mary had wanted it because of the storage drawers in the base . . ..

He shook his head.  This was not that crib.  This was not that life.

A bowl full of blood rested on the barren mattress in the crib.  On the wall above the crib was a message scrawled in blood:

_Too close to home_

John shut his eyes.  It really was, wasn’t it?

“Is it a threat?” Ramsay asked, his voice hushed.

“A what?” Lestrade asked, perfectly playing his part as the occasionally dumbfounded detective.

“Could be,” Sherlock said softly.  John turned to find his best friend staring at him openly, analyzing him, _deducing_ him.

“I’m fine,” he said softly.  He wasn't sure about that, but this wasn't the time for him to be having another massive meltdown.

“Find out about your victims,” Sherlock said to Lestrade, even though his attention was still focused on John.  “At a guess you’ll find they’re not married, not to each other, anyway.  The man lives here, that’s the crib for the baby he and his wife were waiting on.  The woman was probably a business colleague, and they were close friends—”

“Wait, wait,” Lestrade said, turning back from the nursery and into the living room.  “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because, Lestrade, I believe my nephew is right,” Sherlock said.  He pointed at the two dead bodies in the living room.  “Do you notice anything familiar?”

John looked at them again and nearly cried out in dismay.   _Dead because of similarities to—_.  “Oh God.”

After that it was a little bit of a blur.  John caught snatches of Sherlock’s deductions, all delivered in a blindingly fast monologue: “ _She tried to sacrifice herself for him, volunteered to go first, watched him as she died . . .the killer probably took that moment to kill him, too, nothing without the symbolism and symmetry . . .”_

John was fairly certain he was going to be sick.  He staggered out the front door and into the night, gasping for fresh air, oblivious to how it would look to the people around him.  Rumors of amateur behavior didn’t matter so much when one was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. 

Somehow he ended up in the back of a cab next to Sherlock, leaned up into his space, with Ramsay on the jump seat across from him.  He was breathing deeply and bent forward at the waist.  Sherlock’s hand was warm between his shoulder blades.

“Right, right, I think I’ve got it now,” John protested, pushing back against the weight on his back.  “Okay, I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s arm went around John’s shoulders, but John barely noticed—until Ramsay did.  The teenager turned his eyes away and was suddenly fascinated with his phone.

“Was it an affair?” John asked.

“If it was, would it make the homicide more justified?” Sherlock asked in return.

“No, Sherlock, just—was it?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No, I don’t think so.  I think they were good friends.  I’m not even sure she’d ever been to his flat before.”

John nodded.  “And the thing about, about sacrifice—”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Sherlock murmured.

John shook his head.  “No, but it’s, God, Sherlock, it’s horrible.”

John could feel Sherlock nodding against the side of his head.  “Yes.  And we’ll find the killer.”

“Before he finds you,” Ramsay said softly, his eyes never leaving his phone.

Sherlock glared at Ramsay.  “My address— _our_ address—is a matter of public record.  It’s hardly difficult to find me.  This killer wants my attention first, wants to panic me and make me nervous.  You should know, Ramsay, that I don’t respond to those tactics.  Never have.  I hope you know better than to respond as well.”

Ramsay didn’t say anything, he merely cast a significant glance at John, one that caught and held for two seconds and poured all of the unflattering truth into the silence between the three of them:

_I know too well, Uncle, I know how these things work, but does your doctor?_

“He’s fine,” Sherlock said, but his voice was tense.

 _Fantastic,_ John thought.  He directed his anger inward.  _I’m the weak one.  Again._   He felt his whole body tense at the thought. 

Sherlock might have misunderstood, because he withdrew his arm from around John’s shoulders. 

Then again, maybe he didn’t misunderstand after all.  He leaned in close to John’s ear and whispered, “You’re not the weak one.  You never were.”  Maybe, then, Sherlock didn’t want there to be any confusion over who was weak and who was strong, and coddling John the way he had been was sending all the wrong signals to the impressionable teenager in the cab with them.

Even so, John missed the touch and realized that he was going to spend a very long time thinking about it.


	5. The Space We Inhabit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t. God help him, he couldn’t. He staggered into the adjoining room—another nursery with that same damned crib—and read the message scrawled there in blood:  
> Closer still.

# Chapter 5: The Space We Inhabit

 

John woke the next morning to hushed voices in the sitting room of 221B.  He crept down the stairs from his room and peered through the door.

“You’re a lousy ninja, John,” came Sherlock’s deep voice from the sitting room.  “Join us.”

“Ninja?” he asked as he slid the door open.  Ramsay was sprawled out on the sofa, his bed of sorts, but his face was earnest and the look he shot at John was filled with exasperation.  Sherlock was standing over Ramsay—no, _looming_ over him—and scowling.

Ramsay threw up his arms and stormed away, muttering something about taking a shower.

“And what was that about?” John asked in his mildest voice.

Sherlock scowled but realized that he was going to be held to a promise he’d made to John to not lie or hide.  “Ramsay was expressing certain . . . _reservations_ . . . about your involvement with this case.”

“And you told him where he can shove his reservations?”

Sherlock gave a quick nod, but it wasn’t as enthusiastic as John would have wished.  “John, perhaps—”

“Oh no,” John said.  “No, we’ve agreed.  You’re not to hare off after any other masterminds on your own.  Did we not agree?”

Sherlock gave another quick nod, and again it wasn’t as enthusiastic as John wanted.  “Well, right, but Ramsay—”

“If that sentence ends with any variation of _Ramsay is going to cover your back instead_ , I’ll shoot you in the head myself.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Been shot before.  I think I can handle it.”

John shook his head, but then the reality of the situation swamped over him.  He sat down hard in his chair.  “Don’t—Sherlock, don’t do this.”

“Do what, John?”

_Start leaving me behind_ _start running off on your own start plotting your next absence start being bored with me_

“Lose faith in me,” John said, and it sounded embarrassingly like a whine.  He turned his face away from Sherlock so all he could see was a watery image of his own trousers.

Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John’s chair.  “ _Never_ ,” he said, his voice shaking with the force of his conviction.  John looked up from the watery image of his trousers and was confronted instead by a watery image of Sherlock, staring at him with a ferocity he hadn’t ever seen before.  John blinked, allowing two identical tears to fall, and looked again.  “If I can count on nothing else, John Watson, it’s your constancy.  I would be lost without it.”

John nodded.  This was another of those _moments_ , the strange real-life moments with blurred edges too close to fantasy.  In some of his more uncontrollable daydreams Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s and told him that he was absolutely everything important and Sherlock would never leave him again.  Hell, from Sherlock’s place on his knees, this could be the beginning of the ultimate of John’s romantic fantasies, the beginning of happily ever after—or hell, the beginning of a really lurid sexual fantasy that combined Sherlock’s unbelievably plush mouth and John’s not-at-all plush cock.

And the _moments_ were coming faster and more frequently, weren’t they?  Or was it only a shift in John’s perception, since he’d come to the sad realization that he had a _thing_ for Sherlock?  A _thing_ that wasn’t romantic or polite, a _thing_ that might burn him alive from the inside out unless he found a way to crawl under Sherlock’s skin and live there and only die when Sherlock died, and not live a moment longer, because life without him may have once been possible but it had never been _pleasant_ , hell it was hardly _life_ at all, just one long series of boring days stretching to infinity, and only the promise made by a silent bullet could have stopped it.

All Sherlock really had to do to move this from _moment_ to _fantasy_ was wipe John’s tears away, then John could cup his face and . . .

Sherlock leaned away.  “We do have to find a way through your panic attacks,” he said, his voice as cold and cutting as a steel sword. 

In spite of himself, John grinned.  “Yeah.”  Because when in doubt about messy, annoying _feelings_ , one needed only return to the Work.

 

 

Despite that, neither of them spoke about it again.  They had a couple of conference calls with Lestrade to review his findings (Sherlock had been right about most of it, had only missed that it was the man who’d been bled first, not the woman), but there wasn’t enough information to pursue the killer directly—at least, not yet.  They were forced back into a strained domesticity, now complicated by John’s suspicion that Ramsay was undermining his relationship with Sherlock.

It was little things, really, the kind of little things you’d naturally dismiss as a teenager’s general cluelessness about social conventions after a lifetime spent dependent on technology.  But this was no ordinary teenager, and his behavior whenever Mrs. Hudson came to call—perfect solicitude—made it clear that his rudeness was isolated to John.  –And, maybe, his own family members, but John wasn’t related to him at all.  No, most non-relatives were treated with the same choreographed courtesy shown to Mrs. Hudson, that made it clear that this kid was descended of diplomats.

On this particular evening John was doing the after-dinner washing up and was choking on his own miffed offense that Ramsay hadn’t eaten what’ he’d cooked, indeed, hadn’t deemed the meal worthy of his attention.  Sure, it was meat stew with potatoes and cabbages and Yorkshire puddings, but John was confident enough of his cooking abilities with this meal and didn’t feel it had come out badly at all.  So when Ramsay breezed into the kitchen during the washing and started pulling things out of the refrigerator, and heating them up, and making a mess again, John thought he might scream.

The only thing that dissuaded a verbal manifestation of his anger was the none-too-obvious effect he was having on Ramsay; the teen was growing steadily less patient with John’s presence in the kitchen.  He muttered about John being in the way, that he needed a bowl from the cabinet directly over John’s head, that he needed to slide by to get his favorite glass.  John was used to this bit; he’d been playing the Immovable Object to Sherlock’s Unstoppable Force for years now.  He planted his feet and indulged in the smug satisfaction that Ramsay was just as annoyed as he was, now.

Ramsay slammed his fists on the kitchen table so hard that some of Sherlock’s delicate glass instruments tinkled.  Sherlock reacted—finally—by lifting his head from whatever he’d been absorbed in for the past half hour on his laptop.  He scowled at Ramsay.

“He’s in the way!” Ramsay protested.

Sherlock flicked his eyes over the scene and sniffed.  “You should have joined us for dinner.”

“I don’t eat red meat.”

“You did two weeks ago.  Is this a new development?”

“I don’t want to eat red meat.”

“Again, I do not recall that this has ever come up before.”

“It’s coming up now.”

“Fine.  You can wait in here on the sofa until John is done with the washing, or you can help him with it.  Damaging my lab equipment isn’t one of those two options, so stop that immediately.”  And with that Sherlock returned to his laptop and John and Ramsay were left staring at him.

“I’ll help you,” Ramsay decided.

“Would rather you didn’t if you’re not interested in it.”

Ramsay was already toweling off the clean dishes and putting them away.  “Sitting on my arse on the sofa is far less appealing.”

“And you’re hungry.”

“I’m hungry.”

Sherlock got up from his laptop and looked at his phone, then smiled and dialed a number.  He left the sitting room and jogged briskly down the stairs.

Ramsay watched him go, then turned John by his shoulder.  His eyes were earnest, and he looked so much like Sherlock in that moment that John felt a momentary confusion.

“Right.  Tell him.”

“What?”

“Tell my uncle how you feel about him.”

John felt his momentary confusion shift into a mild sense of panic.  His left shoulder throbbed.  “What?”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at—”

“Because if you’re stringing him along like this for anything less I’ll kill you.”

“If I’m . . .stringing?”  John didn’t know what was happening.

“You can’t be serious.”  Ramsay popped open the microwave and retrieved something that smelled atrocious, like hot sickness.  He started shoveling the mess into his mouth, his eyes fixed on John.

“I guess—am I supposed to say something right now?” John asked.  He became aware of his surroundings and turned off the tap.

“You?  Why you?” Ramsay asked.  “Why on earth would it be _you_ , John Watson?”

“Why would—what? What the hell—”

Ramsay shook his head.  “Never mind.  Enjoy being a goldfish.”  He took his bowl with him to the sofa just before Sherlock swept back into the flat, eyes alight.

“A . . .goldfish?” John asked the thin air.  He’d been through this kind of conversation before, with Sherlock, of course.  Apparently all of the Holmeses treated conversation like vehicular assault, and John was left gaping on the sidewalk feeling like especially dense roadkill.

But he’d never before been subjected to the whole thing as a result of his own personal feelings.  Or was it about his feelings?  There were mentions of him being in love with Sherlock, but everything rapidly devolved into snatches of sentences that seemed to belong in wholly different conversations.

 _“Why on earth would it be_ you _, John Watson?”_

“John! Get your coat.  There’s been another one.”

 _Oh, thank heavens_ , John thought, then thought he was deserving of whatever hell he fell into after a life spent thanking God for murders.

 

* * *

 

 

This crime scene wasn’t in Soho.  This time it was in Knightsbridge, so close to their front door they walked there.  Already John felt a kind of breathless tension building in his spine as he came into view of the yellow tape.

The bodies were arranged as they were at the last scene.  This time the pair was a tall, handsome man with brown hair and a petite woman, blonde and pretty.  John saw Sherlock and Mary in front of him and wished he could un-see it.

He couldn’t.  God help him, he couldn’t.  He staggered into the adjoining room—another nursery with that same damned crib—and read the message scrawled there in blood:

_Closer still._

Sherlock came up behind him and put a hand on his good shoulder.  “Alright?”

John didn’t want to be the weak one.  He couldn’t bear being the weak one.  So he nodded.

Sherlock was apparently not buying it.  He turned John around by the shoulders and filled his field of vision with his face.  “It’s not me.  It’s not Mary.”

John nodded.  “Yeah, I know that.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Say it.”

“Sherlock—”

“If you know it, say it.”

“It’s not you.  It’s not Mary.”

“Deep breath, then say it again.”

John did as he was asked and something in his mind cleared instantly.  “It’s not you.  It’s not Mary.”  He said it again just to lock it down into reality.

“Correct.  Come along, John.”

John followed him back out to the living area and saw it: Not Sherlock.  Not Mary.  Just two people who shared too many characteristics in common, and it cost them their lives.

“Looks like it’s all the same,” Ramsay said, then looked at John.  “Care to check my work, Doctor?”

John did, taking a little more time this time than he had last time.  He felt that wonderful calm he’d known in Afghanistan fill his veins.  “Yes, that’s right,” he said after a careful moment.  “Bled from the wrists, eviscerated after death, maybe a good twenty minutes after.”

“Very good,” Sherlock said brusquely.  “Lestrade?  Do you have any info on them?”

“She was pregnant,” Lestrade said.

John felt his world blur again, then bit the inside of his cheek.  _Not Mary_.

“Not his?” Sherlock asked, pointing at the male victim.

“No, presumably,” Lestrade said.  “Her husband is on his way home.”

John shook his head.  There they stood, about to bear witness to the moment a man went from married and preparing for a baby to a widower with an empty bed and an empty crib.  God, did he ever know what that felt like.

 _We even have the same crib_ , he said, even though that wasn’t really true, hadn’t been true in months, he’d gotten rid of it when he’d gotten rid of everything else.  _Wonder if we can bond over this at a pub sometime._

Except that this man’s life hadn’t been an elaborate lie. 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said and turned him away from the scene. 

“You should interview him, Sherlock,” John murmured.

“Should I?” Sherlock asked.  His tone was musing and light.

“Yes.  You know you should.”

“He wasn’t involved at all.”

“I know that, yeah?  But he can tell you something, I’m sure he can.  Maybe a small thing to help you see the whole thing more clearly.”

“Conductor of light,” Sherlock said softly.

“What?”

“You, John Watson.”  Sherlock stopped and stared.  “You keep me right.”  He blinked, hard, as if he’d been surprised by his own words.  “Do you think—can you bear to be a part of it?  For me?”

John felt a tight smile spread over his face.  “Yeah.  Of course.”

It wasn’t so bad, in the end.  The man was a quiet, taciturn type, and it became apparent that he wasn’t comfortable with the friendship between his wife and her childhood friend, Spencer, despite the fact the friend was gay and had never been anything but pleasant to him and enthusiastic about the baby on the way.  The husband was generally unpleasant, in fact, but as Sherlock suspected he’d had nothing to do with the murder.  The whole interview was swiftly heading into a waste of time when John asked what seemed to be a very innocent question:

“Your wife, she didn’t mention anything strange happening over the past few days, weeks?  Anything?”

The man cocked his head at John, his brow furrowed.  “Now that you say it, yeah.  She said something about a ghost.  She thought her dead da was following her around a bit.  She said Spencer could feel it, too, so they started a little joke about it.”  He shrugged.  “Just thought it was gay, meself.  They were always getting up to that kind of nonsense, like children if you ask me.”

“Why did she think it was her dead father?” John asked.

“Smell of tobacco, very particular brand her da favoured, he could only ever find it at that Cuban tobacco exchange up the road.”

That had been it, the spark that blew open the case.  Five hours later Sherlock, John, and Ramsay were crawling through the Garrideb Warehouse on the Thames, picking through tobacco leavings and trying to find a very specific kind.

“I thought you knew tobacco,” John huffed.

“I know tobacco _ash_ ,” Sherlock rebutted.

“Too bad you didn’t take time to enjoy the product beforehand,” Ramsay said.

“He did, plenty,” John said, still a little peeved with Ramsay.

“Not that way,” Ramsay sniffed.

“We are not talking about this right now,” Sherlock said.

“More rules, Uncle?” Ramsay asked.

“Let’s just solve this case, please,” John whispered.  He was struck again by the couple from earlier, by Meg and Spencer, best friends who’d noticed a strange cigar smell in the weeks prior to their deaths.  Something so small, so seemingly insignificant, but it was the smell of approaching death and they hadn’t known it.

The three of them were quiet for a while, and John found himself separated from Sherlock and Ramsay after another ten minutes.  He heard them following some trail having to do with breeding and strains or something—he wasn’t a botanist, after all—until they were far enough away to change topics.

Perhaps they weren’t aware of the acoustics of the warehouse, but John was fairly sure they didn’t know he could hear their conversation remarkably well:

“Uncle, please.  It’s getting worse.”

“It’s fine.  It’s all fine.”

“No, it isn’t.  This can’t continue like this.  You need to tell him.”

John bristled. 

“He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“That doesn’t change that fact that you need to say it.”

“No.  He’s gone through so much, why would I do that to him?”

“Because it’s what _you_ need.  It’s become too distracting.  You can’t work like this, and what else do you have?”

John felt his face flush red with anger.  That was entirely too much.  He knew that his strange panic attacks weren’t helping Sherlock, but Ramsay was forcing an issue that was—well, Sherlock said.  It was fine, all fine.  They would figure it out themselves, in their own time.  Ramsay was pushing and he shouldn’t, he just—

A loud clatter resounded through the warehouse and John rose from where he’d been crouched on the floor.  “What was—”

John was between the door and the spot on the floor where Sherlock and Ramsay were still bent close to the floor.  He fumbled for his gun—where was his gun?—right before he heard two gunshots. 

_Pop  
Pop_

John fell, surprised and aware that he’d been shot twice, aware that the pain would be coming for him.  Mercifully, before he could feel any of it, he blacked out.


	6. Light, Heart, Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wept. He curled over John’s prone form and wept, his hands covering his face, then he gently wrapped his arms around John’s body and pulled him in, so close, so very close, and John was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware that he had no memory of this and he wanted it, he wanted to remember this moment when Sherlock, his Sherlock held him so close. Sherlock was still weeping, his face buried in John’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be angst. Dear God, the angst.

# Chapter 6: Light, Heart, Everything

 

John woke in fits and starts.  The pain buzzed around him, insistent but without definite shape, and he was able to push it aside enough to get his bearings.

Hospital. Of course he was in hospital.  He’d been shot, hadn’t he?  Yes, that was the source of the pain in his left thigh.  And Sherlock, he was there.  Every time John came to, Sherlock had moved in the room, once sitting in the chair by the bed, once standing at the window and observing people as they walked by, sometimes asleep, his head on John’s arm.  John wanted to finally touch that crown of curls, but he didn’t want to wake him, so he didn’t.

Then there was the moment he came to most fully, and Sherlock wasn’t there.  Ramsay was, and he looked irritated beyond reckoning.

“Finally.  You’re awake.  Look, you have to watch this.”

John frowned as Ramsay shoved his mobile into his hands.  “What?”

“The video,” Ramsay answered, pressing a button the screen of his phone.  Immediately the video started.  It wasn’t hard to figure it out: it was Ramsay’s point of view, his hand holding his camera phone in the warehouse shortly after John was shot.

 _“John!” Sherlock cried, pulling John’s gun from his own pocket and firing off two shots of his own.  He then flung the gun roughly in Ramsay’s direction_ (careless, always careless with guns, the safety was off, could have blown Ramsay’s head off) _and tackled the faceless gunman, who appeared to be terrified and bleeding._

_Sherlock handcuffed him, then crawled over to where John was sprawled rather gracelessly on the tobacco-strewn concrete of the warehouse floor.  “John?” he whispered, checking him over with his eyes and wincing when he saw where the bullets had found their homes.  He tied off the femoral wound with his own scarf, talking the whole time.  “John?  Stay with me, John, please.”  His voice was trembling like it had in Dartmoor.  Sherlock Holmes was scared.  “You have to.  You have to stay with me.  You can’t die in the Garrideb Warehouse, I won’t allow you to.  Do you hear me?”_

_Then John saw something that he’d never seen before.  Sherlock wept.  He curled over John’s prone form and wept, his hands covering his face, then he gently wrapped his arms around John’s body and pulled him in, so close, so very close, and John was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware that he had no memory of this and he wanted it, he wanted to remember this moment when Sherlock, his Sherlock held him so close.  Sherlock was still weeping, his face buried in John’s neck.  Ramsay crept closer and John could hear what Sherlock was whispering:_

_“You’re still alive.  I can feel your pulse in your neck, John.  You can hear me, so hear this now.  My heart, John.  God, you are my conductor of light, my heart, you are everything to me.  You can’t leave me alone here, please.  I can’t be without you.”  His voice dropped to a breathy whisper, and John could hear the way it shook: “I love you.”_

“Now fucking tell him,” Ramsay said as he pulled the phone from John’s white-knuckled grip.  His face cramped with emotion.  “Please.  My father didn’t know how much my mother loved him when he was sent away.  No.  I had to be the only one she told that to, when the person who most needed to hear it never did.  He died without knowing.”  Ramsay looked up to the ceiling and took a deep breath.  “Don’t hurt Sherlock that way.”

Ramsay turned and left without another word.

John sat, and thought, and waited for Sherlock to come back, which he did just twenty minutes later.

“John, you’re awake!” he said, delighted.

“Did you know Ramsay was filming you?”

Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway to the hospital room.  His face drained of color.  “Filming?”

“At the warehouse?”

Sherlock’s face became plastic.  “Warehouse.”

“The Garrideb Warehouse, the tobacco?”

“Ah.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t know Ramsay was filming you.”  John waved his hand a little.  “After I was shot.”

“I thought he was giving me a flashlight so I could see you better.”

“Nope.  He filmed it and made a point to show me.”  Sherlock’s frown seemed to take up his whole face.  John understood completely.  “Right.  Well, then.  We can, er, just disregard what was said.  It was a comforting reflex, perhaps?  Sherlock?”

“No.”

John felt his heart seize.  “No?”

Sherlock’s face was stone.  “It wasn’t a comforting reflex.  Those weren’t meaningless words.”

“You . . .meant them, then?”

Sherlock nodded stiffly.  “If you require me to, to _recall_ them, I will do my best, but I will not for a moment compromise the truth of my statement by saying I didn’t mean what I said.”

John tried to control his smile—everything, every single thing he’d just recently realized he wanted standing right there in a collection of awkwardly arranged limbs and a spectacularly complicated brain and a heart so true it made him want to weep with the beauty of it—everything was almost perfect.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the plastic chair next to his bed. 

“John, really, if this is meant to be a gentle let-down I’d rather you didn’t expend your energy on it.  I understand.  You’re not gay.  I would still like to be your friend, but I know that Ramsay may have ruined that as well with his opportunistic voyeurism.  I’ll be fine either way, no need to worry—”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” John interjected forcefully.  “Worrying about you is all I’ve done since I met you.  Now sit down, we need to talk.”

Sherlock frowned.  His lips disappeared into a thin line.  He clenched and unclenched his fists.  Despite all that, he did as he was asked and took a seat next to John.

“Give me your hand,” John said.

Sherlock’s frown deepened.  “Why?”

“Because I have some very serious shit I need to say to you and it would make it easier to say.”

Sherlock clearly thought this a very strange idea but offered his hand anyway.  John took it, surprised by how soft and smooth it was, delighted by how familiar it felt.  He held Sherlock’s hand in his own and smiled.

“So you wanted to say?” Sherlock prompted gently.  He was staring at their joined hands.

“Yes.  Right.  So, Sherlock, I’ve been.  Yeah, I’m not good at this,” John acknowledged with a tilt of his head and a sad laugh.  “You deserve, God, Sherlock, you deserve a poet, somebody who isn’t afraid of every bloody word.”

“And you’re the blogger,” Sherlock said softly.  John looked up at him and saw warmth in his eyes and in his gentle smile.

“Yes, well, you’ve said often enough how I’m shit at it.”

“I’ve never said those words in that order.”

John laughed, a light-hearted giggle that felt like the effervescent bubbles escaping champagne, because he was that giddy, he was that happy this was finally happening.  “Okay, true, you’ve never done that.”

“What do you want to say to me, John?” Sherlock asked, and his grip on John’s hand grew marginally tighter.  “Please.”

“Remember when I said I wouldn’t ever move out again?”

Sherlock nodded, a fierce movement of his head.  “You said you’d rather live with the sociopath you know than take your chances on learning a whole new one.”

John sighed.  “Yes, I did say that.  I’m sorry I did.  You’re not a sociopath.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.  You put me before you all the time.”

“The point, John?” Sherlock asked, but it wasn’t his usual exasperation.  There was a light of hope and impatience twinkling in his eyes, and the fact that they’d lost sight of the point in their usual bickering warmed John through.  He could do this.  He could claim Sherlock for his own, and Sherlock was impatient for it.

“The _point_ , you madman, is that I will never leave you.  You could offer anything of yourself and take anything from me, and I’ll always come back to offer you more and take more.  There is no limit, Sherlock.  I have dreamed about you and fantasized about you and I’ve had my heart broken by you and patched up again by you.  It’s yours now.  My heart.  It’s yours, yeah?  Take it.”

Sherlock was grinning now, a blindingly deep grin that transformed his face into exclamation points.  He seemed on the verge of exclaiming his joy, like he did whenever he was presented with a particularly good murder case.  He brought John’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips into the back of it.  “John.  I don’t deserve anything you’re offering, but I accept.  Yes, thank you.”

John wanted to laugh, too, at Sherlock’s clumsy acceptance and at the way it made his heart bloom wide open.  “Don’t deserve?  You seem to be under the impression I’m more than I am.”

“I know exactly who you are, John Watson.  You’re a decorated war hero and a fantastic doctor.  You’re a patient friend and a crack shot.  You make tea like it’s instinct and you cook even when I haven’t asked you to make food and you care about my health and John, I need you.”  Sherlock pressed his lips together again, trapping his words, but he pressed the back of John’s hand against his cheek.

“You’ve stopped yourself talking.  Why?” John asked, moving his hand just enough to trace a fingertip along Sherlock’s top lip.

“Because I’m going to scare you away with all the things I want to say to you,” Sherlock answered, softly kissing John’s offered fingertip.

“Will never happen.  Didn’t I just say that?  No limits, Sherlock.  Give everything, take everything, I’ll still be here.”

“I want to take you away from London for a month, take you to Paris, indulge you, fatten you up on French food and wine, then I want to bring you home and I want to fuck you until you’ve lost that weight again,” Sherlock purred, and John thought he was going to swallow his tongue.  “Then I want you to fuck me like you could possibly plant your seed in my heart.  I want to marry you and grow old with you and retire to a country spot far away from London where we can make love in our kitchen with the sun warming our backs, and I’ll keep bees and you’ll write until you think you’re good enough to tell me everything in your heart, John.  And I’ll stay up all night our first night back in Baker Street, whispering the thousands of ways I want to love you and care for you, all the things I want to do to prove to you how I love you, the way I love you, and it’s probably not entirely healthy but it’s the only way I know.”

John was gobsmacked for all of a second and a half, then, breathlessly, he whispered “Yes.  That.  Let’s do that,” and Sherlock bent forward and John leaned upward until their mouths met, and Sherlock’s lips were chilled and soft and clung to John’s in a way that John found sweet and pure, and after what Sherlock said about fucking each other was that possible?  Apparently it was, because the kiss didn’t deepen into anything carnal—with John still on his back in a hospital bed, probably a good thing.  Even so, it was a sweet dance of lips, a tender expression of everything they felt, just a preview of what was coming.

Ramsay stood outside the hospital door, peering in through the smallish window and filming, a big smile on his face.


	7. Getting Down to Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something that had been trapped inside him suddenly felt very free. He could breathe again. The truth was known now, all of it, and he didn’t have to feel guilt or shame or any of that anymore.  
> He was free.

# Chapter 7: Getting Down to Business

 

“Oxford?”

Sherlock nodded, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.  “Smart kid.”

John nodded.  “That he is.”

“He’ll be back next weekend.”

“Convenient.”

John was reclined on Sherlock’s bed, and he was finding it necessary to talk.  He was nervous, and whenever he was nervous he either prattled away like an insecure schoolgirl or he became silent and surly.  This was a schoolgirl moment. 

He was in Sherlock’s bed.  It had become his default relaxing space; Sherlock insisted he sleep in his room, in his bed, to make it more convenient to move between the bathroom and living area and kitchen without the pain of managing the stairs up to John’s own room.  It was a practical solution, and John was worried that it would only be a practical solution—until the first night, when he’d been awakened by Sherlock crawling into bed next to him, wrapping him up in long, strong arms and whispering in his ear of his love and devotion, just as he’d promised he’d do at the hospital.  The words were gorgeous, full of spare poetry and sincerity and so much glorious romance that John almost doubted who was with him—but no, it was Sherlock, his voice, his smell, the warmth of him.  John nearly wept with joy.

“He won’t be back long, just long enough to pack his things and say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson.”  Sherlock smirked at him.  “He quite adores her, you know.”

“I suspect that’s mutual.”

“Hm.”  Sherlock turned away from John to contemplate the diagram of the periodic table on his wall. 

It had been a month since John had picked up two new gunshot wounds, one in his left thigh and one grazing wound on his right hip.  He was on the verge of thinking himself fortunate to have avoided a serious injury when Sherlock had told him, during one particularly memorable doctor visit, that the gunman had clearly been inept; his hold of his gun, his entry into the warehouse with the gun blazing, the ridiculous way he’d broken down in tears when Lestrade had arrived to sort out everything, made it clear that Sherlock considered the bumbling idiot the worst kind of amateur and well beneath his notice—if he hadn’t shot John.

As it was, he was determined to destroy the man, every shred of him, and leave him alive to witness the aftermath. 

“So—the Garrideb Warehouse.”

Sherlock turned back to him, a small, whimsical smile fading from his face.  “What about it?”

“What was that all about?  The deaths, the tobacco?  What’s the connection?  And why do I have this sneaking feeling that it’s not over yet?”

“Funny, Lestrade seems convinced it _is_ over.”  Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John.  “Why do you not?”

“You’ve made it plain that you don’t think much of the shooter.  I don’t think there’s a chance he was involved in draining the victims, then eviscerating them.”

“Good.  Go on.”

“So he was working for someone.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Cheap security, at a guess, with carte blanche to shoot to kill any intruders.  There was something in that warehouse.”

“You want to go back.”

Sherlock’s face grew dark.  “No.  I never want to go back.”

John sighed.  “Why not?”

“Because I spent the worst five minutes of my life there.”

John watched his best friend deflate and saw a glimpse of the emotion he’d seen in the video Ramsay had shown him.  As always, that peek at Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Man, was startling and surreal.  His prismatic eyes fixed on John, and the vulnerability in them nearly broke his heart.

“Huh.  And you invaded Serbia.”

Sherlock’s eyes transformed, and the relief that shone through them made it clear that John had made the right call, that humor was exactly what he needed.

_I will always give you what you need._

“Even so, I’m sure that in the past four weeks they’ve found plenty of time to relocate whatever incriminating evidence the moron with the gun was protecting.  It’s not there anymore.  Our only chance is to find out who employed this man and proceed from there until we find the motive and the murderer.”

“How do we do that?”

Sherlock’s smirk reappeared.  “I’ve already done it.”

“You have?”

“Ramsay’s camera phone.  He filmed the first interrogation.”  Sherlock retrieved his laptop from the end of the bed and opened it.  He tapped a few keys then spun the laptop around until the screen faced John.

John watched as the video started, as a rage-filled Sherlock took a seat across from the man who’d shot John, a tall, muscular, blond, not-too-bright looking man named Derek Norland.  He started the interrogation with complete silence, ice cold eyes drilling holes into the man.  Norland stared back, then started to tremble, then started to demand answers:

“What?  What is it?  What are you doing?”

Sherlock said nothing, but he started to smile, and it was the razor-sharp smile, the one that kept going and going until it seemed he would reveal fangs, lots of them.

“What do you want?  Are you going to talk?  What?”

Finally, Sherlock spoke, his voice dark and deep and not very loud, but very, very present.  “Shut up.  Do you realize that if you had killed John Watson you would be dead right now?  You are only alive because I decided there might be some use for you.  If there is no use for you, I’ll drag you outside and end you.”

“I weren’t trying to kill nobody,” Norland stammered.  “Swear to God, I weren’t.  I was scared, alright?  Nobody was supposed to be there, she told me nobody could be there.”

“She?  Who’s she?”

Norland shut his mouth with a nearly-audible click.

“Ah, so you’re scared of her.  Even now?  Awaiting trial in jail?”

“She can slip through walls,” the man said, his eyes wide.  “She’s like a ghost.”

“Who is she?”

“She doesn’t have a name.”

“Oh, come now,” Sherlock purred, using his best buddy-face.  “She has to go by _something_.”

“Yeah, she goes by several somethings,” Norland said with a disgusted huff.  “Shadow, Ghost, the Woman—”

John fumbled to pause the video then looked up over the laptop at Sherlock.  “Did he mean—was that about—no.  It can’t be.”

“If you’re referring to Irene Adler, it can.  She’s not, er, as _dead_ as Mycroft made her out to be.”

John felt a small bubble of rage rise to his throat.  “We had this discussion, yeah?  About secrets?”

“It wasn’t a secret, it simply never came up again.”  Sherlock saw the anger on John’s face and sighed.  “Look, if you want me to re-hash every moment of our acquaintance so I can correct every misconception, we’ll be here a while.”

“We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

Another glimpse of the Emotional Sherlock before he forced it back down.  “I spared her life, in Karachi.”

John nodded.  “Well, right.  Er, professional courtesy?”

“Very few people have beaten me at the game, John.  She’s come the closest.  I considered it a reward, of sorts.”

“Moriarty never came close?”

Sherlock smirked, but it faded quickly, like smoke.  “I thought—I thought I had outsmarted him,” Sherlock admitted.  “But in the end he separated us, so yes, in a way he beat me.”

“So you should have spared him.”

“No.  No one can separate us and live.”

John was fairly sure he should not be enjoying anything about the dark monster he saw in Sherlock’s eyes at that moment, but dammit, he _did_ enjoy it. “Fine, so it could be Irene Adler trying to kill us—but why?”

“Yes, that’s the reason I’ve decided it’s not her.  There’s no clear motive.”

“Jealousy?”

“Over _us_?” Sherlock asked, incredulity coloring his words.  “No, John.  Before I left her in Morocco she wished us luck, both of us, and it was sincere.”

John wanted to argue.  Something about her had always seemed false to him—but if Sherlock was confident, then John would let it go.

 _He’s mine now anyway_ , he thought.  _Mine._

“So then you must have someone else in mind.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Start the video up again.  Back it up five seconds.”

John did as he was asked.  The video picked back up a few seconds before the place he’d cut it off.

“Yeah, she goes by several somethings.  Shadow, Ghost, the Woman, Colonel, the Bride, Agra.”

John stopped the video again and his face went white.  “No.”

Sherlock’s face revealed his compassion.  “It fits, John.”

John nodded.  He knew it did.  It was so obvious now.  “Mary.”

“Alicia Guerrero Ramirez Almaguer, Spanish assassin,” Sherlock whispered.  “She’s been associated with the CIA, the IRA, several terrorist organizations, and—”

“Moriarty.”

Sherlock nodded.

“The bloody _Bride_?” John asked, his rage breaking the surface.  He bared his teeth and stared at the laptop screen, at the man who’d just disclosed that John’s ex was the latest criminal mastermind.

Sherlock shrugged.  “She marries her victims,” he said softly.  “Like—well, continue the video.”

John pressed play and heard Norland finish.  “She was going by Black Widow when she hired me, you know, like the Avengers?  I made a joke about it and I thought she was going to shoot me right then and there.”

John shook his head, stopped the video, and closed the laptop.  “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock said nothing else.  He simply stood in front of his periodic table and watched John, deducing him, trying to stay a step ahead of John’s possible oncoming meltdown. 

Oddly, John didn’t feel in the least panicked.  “She was going to kill me,” he said, his voice as steady and calm as a millpond.

Sherlock nodded.  “She was.  There was still a bounty on your head, only collectible under two conditions: one, I returned, and two, she produced proof of your death by her hand.  Admittedly Magnussen complicated the whole thing by renegotiating the bounty.”

John nodded, thought about it, and said, “Wait, what now?”

“Magnussen was holding the bounty for Moriarty.  He didn’t even charge a carrier fee, only wanted secrets and fodder for blackmail.  But as the person in charge of the bounty he got to renegotiate the terms.  Your bride didn’t like that.”

“Which is why she went after him.”

“And why she disappeared after Magnussen was dead and _Moriarty_ resurfaced.  She was still hopeful that she could salvage something of her massive investment of time and effort.”

John winced.  He had been nothing more than an investment.  “And she couldn’t.”

“Well, as we both know Moriarty is really dead, as is Magnussen.  The money is locked up in some Swiss account, no way to get to it.”

“This—” John said, motioning to his leg, “was revenge, then.”

“Oh, yes.  And the other victims were terrorism.”  Sherlock cocked his head.  “Revenge and terrorism.  Well, buried under some kind of industrial espionage.  If I had to guess the secret she was keeping in that warehouse was related to the recent lifting of the trade embargo between Cuba and the United States.  Sloppy guess, but there it is in the tobacco.  Mycroft is currently chasing whatever she’s hiding.”

“State secrets?”

Sherlock nodded.  “State secrets.”

“And if he catches her?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Why would it be up to me?”

“Because you.  You were.”  Sherlock flapped his hand to indicate John knew the rest.

“Married.”

Sherlock nodded, but refused to meet John’s eyes.

“But I wasn’t, really, was I?” John asked.  “I mean, I met a pretty girl, she was nice, she comforted me after—you know, after,” and here it was John’s turn to gesture at Sherlock and let him fill in the blanks.  “We dated, we made love, we married—but it was an act.  It’s like actors marrying in a movie.  They aren’t actually married in real life.  I was never married.”

“So . . .what does that mean? For her?”

“I don’t care,” John said, and realized as he said it that he meant every word.  “I just don’t care.  I don’t want to be involved in any way.”  Something that had been trapped inside him suddenly felt very free.  He could _breathe_ again.  The truth was known now, all of it, and he didn’t have to feel guilt or shame or any of that anymore.

He was free.

Sherlock nodded again, still avoiding John’s eyes.  “So, it’s possible then.”

“What is?”

“Falling out of love.”

John scrutinized his best friend and the love of his life.  “How do you mean?”

“You were in love with her.”  Sherlock turned to face him again, finally.  “And now you’re not.”

“No, Sherlock.  I was never in love with her.  I was in love with who she pretended to be.  That woman is dead now.  I didn’t fall out of love.”

“Ah.”

“I can’t tell if you’re relieved or not.”

Sherlock abruptly sat on the edge of the bed at John’s hip.  “I can’t either.  I thought, perhaps, I could find some solace in it, the thought that, well, when you change your mind about this, I might be able to, someday, not be hurt—”

John leaned forward and kissed him.  Sherlock made a soft, breathy noise, the same one John had been hearing for weeks now, the one Sherlock made every time he was kissed, the sound of a man who still couldn’t believe that this was happening, that he was allowed to be happy.  John backed away so he could see that heartbreaking way Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes screwed tight, a helpless smile of wonder on his puckered lips.

“You idiot,” John said softly.  “ _When_ I change my mind?”

“You will,” Sherlock argued.  “I’ll enjoy as much of this as you can give me, but when it’s done I’ll let you walk away.”

“Complete and utter moron.”

“John.”

“No.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“Because I’m the sociopath you know?  John, don’t you see that you deserve better?”

“Was Mary better?  Or Sarah?  Or Jeannette, or Kelly, or any of them?  No.  They weren’t better, not for me, because no matter what happened I was after you.  Even with Mary, God, Sherlock, one month after our wedding I was so desperate for action that I busted into a drug den.”  John sighed and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, softly, tenderly.  “I deserve to be happy, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“And you make me happy, your madness and your genius.  You do.”

“So what you’re saying is that falling out of love is not an option.”

“Not for me.”

“Right.  Good.”

“And now it’s my turn.”

“John? Your turn to what?” Sherlock was eyeing him warily.

“To this,” he answered, then grabbed Sherlock by the arms and yanked him down onto the bed.  He covered Sherlock’s mouth with his own and held on tight.

Because this was where it usually stopped, John’s forays into intimacy with Sherlock.  All of the kisses in the hospital, and then getting home two weeks ago and having to deal with Sherlock, every day, going about his business in the flat, wandering around in nothing but a sheet, or a small towel around his hips, or bare-chested in pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown, or even fully dressed in that damned aubergine shirt and the Belstaff swirling around him.  He’d show off like this, then crawl into bed with John at the end of the day and hold him tenderly and kiss him softly and whisper in his ear, confessions of love and promises of lust for when John was fully healed, but not a moment before.

He was irritating John’s already angry libido.  John tried bargaining (“mutual handjobs, hell, jerk ourselves off while the other watches, please, Sherlock”) and threats (“keep this up and there won’t _be_ any sex at the end of your wait!”) and feigned indifference.  None of it worked.  Sherlock was going to be careful, so careful with him until he was 100% healed.

 _Sod that_.

Sherlock pushed at him, but John held on tight, only allowing enough space for him to speak: “Sherlock, please.  Let me.  I need you.”

Sherlock stilled.  “Your wound.”

“We’ll be careful, go slow.  Please.  You’re making me beg, and that’s rude.”

“I don’t—John.”  Sherlock swallowed, then screwed his eyes shut.

“You don’t—what?  Don’t want me?” John asked.  The thought hurt.  “But you said—”

“I do, John, I do.  I want you.  I don’t know _how_.”

John stared at him.  “No.”

“What?”

“ _You?_ ”

Sherlock frowned.  “Janine lied.”

“Right, er, right.  But—not before?  Never?”

“No, never.”  Sherlock sighed.  “I know I sounded very bold when I made those promises to you at the hospital, but you have to understand that I’d thought about it, often, so often, and I’d narrowed it all down to my favorite few fantasies, which I shared with you as soon as I could.  John, I want you, so much I think I might die of it sometimes, but I don’t want to disappoint you.  I don’t know if I can—”

“Sherlock.  Stop that.  Sex isn’t like that, okay?  Sex is friction, and it’s messy, but there’s no choreography to learn.”  He turned Sherlock’s anxious face back towards his and ran his thumbs along his cheekbones, still delicate and well-defined even after all this time.  “Sex is about watching your partner, learning what makes them feel good.”  Sherlock frowned.  “Have you ever been swimming in the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“Right.  So it’s like riding the waves.  You learn the ebb and flow of the waves and you figure out when to paddle and when to hold back.  You ride with them, you don’t force yourself through them.  Sex is like that; we ride together, figure each other out, then get our mutual rhythm.  You’re the smartest man I know.  You’ll figure everything out remarkably quickly, just . . .”  John grinned.  “Just _observe_.”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.  He’d seized onto the idea of this as an intellectual pursuit and he was all in.  “Yes.  I can do that.”

“Nobody does it better,” John whispered as he planted little kisses along Sherlock’s cheeks, his eyebrows, his eyelids, down his nose, and finally peppered gentle kisses over his soft mouth.  Sherlock let out a small, happy whine and threw his arms around John.  John carefully turned Sherlock until he was flat on his back on the bed, John suspended over him.

“Your wound,” Sherlock protested.

“It’s nearly healed and it’s well bandaged.  Let me worry about that.  Close your eyes, love.  Feel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is where we earn that E, everyone.


	8. Riding the Wave/Finding Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hands. “I forgive you those things because I love those things, because I love you, and you wouldn’t be you without all of that to forgive. Does that—do you understand any of that?”

# Chapter 8: Riding the Wave/Finding Forgiveness

 

Being in bed with a man was new but, since that man was Sherlock, it was almost shockingly easy.

John had, since returning to Baker Street, slowly been coming to terms with the idea that he would never go to bed with a woman again.  The realization had dawned when he’d made his “home forever” speech to Sherlock all that time ago, but after he’d been shot it took on the feel of a stone-cold fact.  No more soft breasts, no more wet heat, no more silken fall of hair across his cheeks as he heard high-pitched, breathy exultations from the pretty girl writhing on his cock.

It was worth it, though, to feel the whipcord strength of his Sherlock trembling in his arms, the unbelievable force of Sherlock’s passion expressed through all of his male physicality: his deep voice, pebbled nipples, and straining cock all spoke of his overwhelming desire for John.  He didn’t think he’d ever been so desired, and certainly not by the cold-hearted assassin he’d called Mary.

They’d stripped each other clumsily, giggling at their own ineptitude and kissing with joy shining in their eyes.  John noticed that Sherlock enjoyed kissing him with his eyes open, watching John, always watching John.  Once John had been rendered completely naked Sherlock sat back on his haunches and _stared_ , his mouth hanging slightly open and his eyes growing glassy with emotion.

“Sorry, not much special here,” John whispered, abashed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a firm line; it was an angry expression, and John became aware that he was _offended_.  “Not much special?” Sherlock asked.  He reached out and grazed his fingers from John’s scarred shoulder to the new, barely-there scar on John’s right hip to the bandage wrapped around John’s left thigh. 

“Damaged,” John sighed.  “Wasn’t much to start with—”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Look at me, John.”  He removed his hands from John’s body and held them out to his sides, putting his own marble beauty on full display.  He was flushed, his lips stained scarlet from kissing, his hair tousled from John’s fingers, and his cock hard, the tip leaking a drop of precome.  “Nobody else has ever affected me this way.”

John shook his head.  “Madness.  You’re mad.”

A slow, lazy smile spread over Sherlock’s face.  “Yes.”  He lunged for John and once again pinned him to the bed on his back, his arms around John’s waist and his mouth hungry on his neck.

John opened his legs, wanton and eager.  He’d been fretting for a few days over who would top, and he’d hoped he’d be given the choice—he had been sure he wanted to be the, er, active participant, at least at first, to ease him through any awkward transition from heartily heterosexual to whatever he was now—but an empty cavern had opened in his gut, and he wanted to pull Sherlock into it, feel him alive and strong inside him, because in the pairing of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, John would always be the one who gave, the one who _wanted_ to give.

Sherlock groaned and ground his cock against John’s balls.  The movement wasn’t forceful or painful; instead, the friction was delicious, and John slid down just a little in the bed until— _there_ , right there.  Sherlock’s cock slid against John’s now, and they both gasped at the loveliness of it.

“Lube,” John whispered.

“Top drawer,” Sherlock said, then resumed the exploration of John’s neck, jaw, and ears.  He took John’s right earlobe between his lips and worried it with his teeth and John squealed, _actually squealed_ like a girlfriend he’d had in school.  Sherlock made a small noise of consideration and moved his mouth to the other earlobe to do it again. 

It was almost impossible to make Sherlock stop once he’d started to do _that_ , that thing he was doing, the slow cataloguing of John’s kinks, but dammit, John wanted lube.  He wanted to feel slick on their cocks, he wanted to eventually feel Sherlock inside him, god, he needed it.  So he shoved his new lover a little roughly to dislodge him, then dove for the bedside table and yanked open the top drawer.

That didn’t deter Sherlock in the slightest.  He curled over John’s back and peppered kisses along the nape of John’s neck, his cock grinding against John’s ass.  “John,” he grumbled, his voice nearly subsonic, “I want to fuck you.”

 _Jesus_ , John thought as his cock twitched.  “Yeah, yeah, I want that too,” he murmured.  “Tell me you have condoms in here.”

“Don’t need them.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, I’m clean, you are too.”

“I’m not taking chances with that.”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, but his hands still roamed John’s body, finally coming to rest over his nipples as he pinched and rolled and pulled at them.  “Fine.  We’re getting tested tomorrow, then.  Check the back of the drawer.”  He nuzzled his nose into the back of John’s head and took a deep whiff.  “Hurry.”

“I’m in work tomorrow,” John said, then let out a small yelp of triumph when he located the condoms. 

“Convenient,” Sherlock said as he yanked one of the condoms out of John’s hand.

“Git,” John said.  “Why such a hurry?  For the test?”

“I want to come inside you,” Sherlock growled.  “I want to watch it leak out of you, know I put it in you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” John drawled, and bucked his naked ass against Sherlock’s cock.  Much more of Sherlock’s dirty talk and he’d— “Fine, no condoms, God, Sherlock . . .”  John’s eyes popped open.  “Oi! You’re doing this on purpose!”

“What, trying to fuck you?” Sherlock asked, and he was clearly irritated.  “You do catch on quick, don’t you?”

“Shut up, arse,” John scolded.  “You’re doing all this . . .dirty talk . . .to distract me, get me off.”

“That’s what people do.”  Sherlock seemed hesitant and pulled away.  John rolled onto his back and looked at him.  Sherlock had lost his confidence and seemed suddenly unsure.  “Isn’t it?”

John smiled and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Yes,” he whispered, “but you risk being too good at it, like you are with everything.”

Sherlock gave him a blinding smile.  “Just want to make sure you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, I am,” John said.  “Please, go on.”

Sherlock’s smile faded slowly.  “God, John.” Something broke over his face, some cramp of emotion that revealed his heart.  “My John.”  He slid his fingers through John’s hair.  “Never dared to dream.”

John handed Sherlock the lube.  “Go on, then.”

Sherlock nodded and kissed him again, hot and hungry, wet and perfect.  They breathed together.  John felt rather than saw how Sherlock’s hips twitched, and he slid his hands around to cup that gorgeous ass, letting the rhythm of Sherlock’s movement travel up his arms, settle under his skin.  He started to sway in tandem, and before long they were grinding together.  Sherlock made a low, rumbling sound of pure pleasure, then uncapped the lube and sloppily poured some into his palm.  It was a cold shock when John felt Sherlock’s hand on his cock, but the warmth came quickly when Sherlock wrapped his hand around both of them and gave them a firm, slow stroke.

“Oh, god,” John moaned, but their mutual rhythm was known to him now, in his blood, and he coaxed them back into it as he took Sherlock’s mouth again.  Sherlock grunted and flipped them over until John was on top, then he curled his right hand around John’s back and down.  John twitched when he felt Sherlock’s fingers slide into the cleft of his ass.  “Yes,” he hissed.

“I’ve . . .I’ve done some reading,” Sherlock whispered between fevered kisses.  “Stop me if I hurt you.”

John gave a quick nod and closed his eyes.  Sherlock prodded him gently with just the tip of a finger, circling and teasing, and it was delicate and vulgar at the same time.  John sighed; despite what they were doing, he felt safe, safer than he had in a long time, wrapped in Sherlock’s arms.  The finger dipped into his hole, and it felt—odd, but nice.  “More,” he whispered, and Sherlock gave him more, slipping his finger deeper, rotating it, swirling it around the rim.  “Sherlock, use our rhythm,” John whispered, then demonstrated with how they were riding it, the sway of their hips accentuated by John’s steady hands.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said, his voice rough and wrecked.  The motion of his finger resumed, but it matched their grind perfectly now, and John felt it reverberate through his nervous system.  “More,” he said again, and Sherlock introduced a second finger.  It was a little more uncomfortable, but the burn of the stretch only lasted a moment before Sherlock curled his fingers and probed until he found that spot.  John gasped and surged up Sherlock’s body, his cock, now wet with lube and a sheen of precome, bobbing against Sherlock’s upper abdomen.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.  His sex flush had spread, and his mouth was open, and there were two livid suck marks on his neck ( _when had John done that? They hadn’t been there a moment ago, but lord they were lovely)_ , and he was looking at John like he was a miracle in the modern age, like he was trying to understand and adore at the same time.  He was, in that moment, the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

“Ready,” John said, and he slid back down Sherlock’s body until he felt Sherlock’s cock, hard and hot, against his ass. 

“Go slow,” Sherlock whispered.  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

John did.  He had done some reading too, and during his reading he’d grown so flustered, thinking about doing this with Sherlock, that he’d had to have a furtive wank.  The reality was much more amazing, however.  He bore down, releasing his sphincter, and felt the head of Sherlock’s cock pop into his ass.  “Oh,” he said, and stilled, getting used to the feeling.  It was _odd_ , of course, but Sherlock looked devastated, and his hips were twitching intermittently, betraying his desperate need to push up and into John.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moaned.  “Handsome, strong, dangerous . . ..”

The adoration in Sherlock’s eyes was too much.  John closed his own eyes and slid down another inch.  It was insane how this had started to feel good.  No, not just good, he realized as he slid down again, as he heard Sherlock whine under him.  “Amazing,” he whispered.

“Hnng,” Sherlock moaned.  “Don’t—don’t praise too much.  This will be over far too quickly.”

John smirked.  “Probably shouldn’t have let me know that.”

“You’re a horrible person,” Sherlock answered, and John opened his eyes and looked down at him.  He was helpless, open, vulnerable, and all John’s.  He took a deep breath, bore down, and slid onto Sherlock’s cock the rest of the way until he was sitting flush against him.

There was nothing left to hide.  He let Sherlock see everything, then leaned down and kissed him, pouring everything he was feeling into the kiss.

“John, I’m inside you,” Sherlock murmured directly into his mouth.  “You.  I’m in _you_.”

“Where you belong,” John said softly, then rotated his hips and felt a bloom of pleasure so intense he cried out sharply. 

Sex with Sherlock was quickly becoming the most profoundly intense experience of his life, and he felt a thrill of danger in the thought that he might not be able to stand the orgasm that was rising in him.

“Move, please, John,” Sherlock whispered.  “I’m dying, I know I’m dying.”

“You’re not,” John said in response, his voice a little more forceful than he expected it to be.  “You’re not allowed to die.  You said I couldn’t, and that means you can’t either.”  Then John began to move, arching his back and finding that spot again and again.  The rhythm they’d found together returned and he rode through the waves of it, shameless in the way he was bouncing on Sherlock’s cock, and when Sherlock returned his still-slick lubricated hand to John’s cock he let out another loud cry.

“Your wound,” Sherlock said abruptly, and John looked down at the bandage on his leg.  It had developed a very small red spot of blood.

“Never mind, it’s fine,” John said.  “Don’t you dare stop.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Can’t.  Too much, too beautiful, god, John.”

The rhythm steadily increased, and they were matching stroke for stroke, the movement of Sherlock’s hand on John’s cock and the movement of John’s hips over Sherlock’s body, back and forth, and soon enough John felt his balls tighten and draw up, and he could no longer stop the words: “Amazing, brilliant, incredible, Sherlock, love, I love you, love you—”

“Yes, love, John, love, oh . . .”

Then John felt it all let go.  He cried out and shook, and let himself feel all of it, the full measure of his pleasure, the thick, firm presence of Sherlock inside him.  He felt grounded and simultaneously as if he’d been launched into the stratosphere.  His orgasm streamed out of him in thick spurts, covering Sherlock’s chest and belly.

And Sherlock was staring at him, mouth wide open in a silent O of surprise and pleasure, and then his eyes fluttered shut and he let out a deep, gravelly groan and came, warmth filling John as he was baptized inside by Sherlock’s virgin come.

They froze like that for several breathless heartbeats, both staring in wonder at each other, before John collapsed onto Sherlock’s body.  Sherlock’s cock slid from John’s ass, and Sherlock again grabbed John and flipped him, then lifted his uninjured thigh so he could stare at the evidence of what he’d done draining from John’s hole.

“You kinky bugger,” John said affectionately.

Sherlock’s finger collected some of the sticky fluid and slipped it back inside John.  “Beautiful,” he breathed softly. 

John squirmed.  “I’m glad you think so.”

“Mm.”  Sherlock’s eyes scanned up John’s body, then down again, and he winced at the slightly smaller spot of red that had seeped through John’s bandage.  “Oh, no.  John.”

“It’s fine, ‘m fine.”  John did feel fine; those sex chemicals, dopamine and oxytocin, were making him feel lethargic, not a care in the world.  “Just need to replace the bandage.”

“Be right back,” Sherlock said brightly, and John became annoyed at how quickly he’d recovered.  How could he possibly have that much energy at a moment like this?

He returned after only a few minutes with a small basin full of warm water, a flannel, and a fresh bandage.  He set about removing the soiled bandage on John’s leg, then cleaned the wound, then wiped John and himself clean of the evidence of their coupling, then scooped his pants off the floor and used it to dry them both.  It was only then that he let out a jaw-cracking yawn and collapsed beside John.

They curled together, touching and kissing and murmuring (“Okay?” “Better than okay.” “Sore?” “It’s fine.” “Kiss me.” “Yes.”) and drifting in and out of consciousness, comforted by each other’s presence.  Finally John broke the silence:

“So, Ramsay?”

“Can we not discuss my nephew while we’re in bed together?  He’s let us have this week without him for a reason.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask about.  I thought he despised me, but he doesn’t, does he?”

Sherlock chuckled softly.  “God, no.  He adores you.  Says you’re perfect for me, but too stubborn for your own good.”

“Ah.”

“Says the same about me, to be fair.”

“Mm hmm.”

“You don’t sound like you disagree.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“You think I’m stubborn?”

John pushed himself up on wobbly arms so he could regard the love of his life.  “Really?”

“I’m not stubborn.”

John flapped a hand at the space between them.  “How long have you wanted this?”

“Almost from the start.  But John, you weren’t gay.”

John shook his head.  “Still not.”

“See?  Stubborn.”

It was so comfortable, so cozy, and John suddenly felt himself overwhelmed.  “Only you,” he whispered as he settled back into Sherlock’s embrace.  “For the rest of my life.”

Sherlock kissed him softly on the top of his head.  “Yes.”

They drifted to sleep together, their breathing synchronizing into an interpretation of their rhythm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Two weeks later_

John frowned as he watched Ramsay fawn over his grandparents.  He needed a guidebook, apparently, because he still didn’t understand Ramsay’s criteria for Who Gets Respect and Who Does Not.  He thought it was: nice to the world but rude to his own family, and John.  Apparently that rule needed revising, however, because there Ramsay stood, solicitously hunched forward over his grandparents, serving them tea and smiling at them charmingly.

“Oh, Oxford,” Mummy said, softly patting his cheek.  “Like your father.  Of course, I told him what I’m telling you now: A Holmes does _not_ go to Oxford.”

Ramsay smiled.  “No, a Holmes goes to Cambridge,” he said with a wink at her.  “Because Cambridge is where you went.”

“And where I met my Siger,” she said, casting an affectionate, if stern, glance at her husband, who had somehow gotten up from his chair with all the stealth of a jungle cat in order to putter around with the fire again.  He flapped at hand at them, and John thought he heard the man say under his breath, “Oh, psh.”

John also noticed that Mycroft was, once again, not in the room.  To be fair, he usually was found in the kitchen, bent over his laptop and, Sherlock insisted, furtively sneaking mince pies from the refrigerator.  However, this year John thought it more likely that Mycroft was trying to stay out of the room so everyone could enjoy this family reunion without it getting . . .awkward.

All in all, John decided as he drained the last of his tea, it was a good call.  He wasn’t sure Mycroft should have come at all.

He wandered into the kitchen and was acknowledged by said _British Government_ with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

“Why _did_ you come?” John asked, since the need for niceties with this particular knob-end had never been smaller.

“To close up some business with you, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft answered quickly, leading John to believe that it was very likely Mycroft had been waiting on not only him, but also his question.

“Uh huh.”  John nodded briskly and stepped closer to Mycroft’s chair.  “And what business is that?”

“Your message was delivered to the Black Widow, as we’ve decided to call her.”

“Uh huh,” John said again.

Mycroft regarded him coolly.

“And is that all?” John asked, his arms prickling.

“She wanted to convey a message of her own,” Mycroft said. 

“I’m sure she did.”

“Did you want to watch it?” Mycroft asked, gesturing to his laptop.

“Oh, she recorded a video?  This should be _enthralling_ ,” John said.  “Yes, let me watch this.”

He stepped around to see the screen of the laptop and Mycroft entered a few keystrokes.  The video started.  The woman’s face was familiar—of course it was.  He’d stared into it earnestly several times, trying to understand his own luck at finding her in all the world, the one person who was interesting enough to get his mind—hell, his heart—off of Sherlock Holmes.  Turns out the only reason for that was because she was _more_ dangerous than Sherlock.

It was obvious now, how dangerous she was.  Her hair was jet black and slicked against her head.  Her lips were a scarlet red, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl.  She looked dangerous.

But as soon as she realized the video was recording she slipped into a persona that was heartbreaking in its familiarity.  “John!  Oh, hello, John.”  The smile was sweet now, sweet as he remembered it, sunny and uncomplicated and a little sarcastic, for all that.  “I’m so sorry I can’t be there in person.  But listen, Mr. Holmes made sure I got your message, and I understand what you’re telling me, I do.”  The Mary persona then disappeared; the woman on the screen was all Black Widow again, and her smile was filled with razors.  When next she spoke her voice carried a light Spanish accent laid over gravel and darkness.  “I don’t think you understand, John.  As long as I’m alive, I will hunt you.  Both of you.  I’m a little . . .low on funds at the moment, and that fool at the warehouse put me even further behind, but I will return.  I will leave more death and destruction in my wake.  There will be more messages for you to find, and when you least expect it—” She leaned forward until her pale face filled the screen.  “I will take him from you, John.  I will have my vengeance.”  She leaned back and kept moving until John could see her, all of her: a slim, petite woman in a black catsuit, her middle distended with a baby coming very soon.  “But it will be a little while, yes?  I’ll give you and your Sherlock a little time.  Enjoy it, John.”

The video went black.  Mycroft was staring at the door that led out to the garden.  John turned to him.  He waited for Mycroft to turn towards him, but shook his head to discourage any conversation.  “Has Sherlock seen this?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Do you think that perhaps, considering the change in your, er, dynamic—”

John gave him a look that informed him precisely what would happen if Mycroft continued to speak.

“He’ll see it, Mycroft.  I’ll tell him it exists and he’ll find a way to see it.  But I don’t want you involved in any way anymore.”

Mycroft nodded, then stood and closed his laptop.  “Yes.  I understand.”

John pointed into the next room.  “What you did to that kid, that _boy_ , was awful.  And you would have done it again, to me.  You would have taken away my whole _world_ , sent him off to die in another country.  Again, Mycroft, again—”

“Dr. Watson, that’s enough.”

He turned to see Mummy standing in the doorway to the kitchen, glaring at him.

“But how?” he asked, his resolve smashing to bits under her glare.  She moved past him and wrapped her son in her arms.  Mycroft didn’t collapse in tears, didn’t hide his face—but he did lean, ever so slightly, against his mother, and for a man like Mycroft he might as well have howled in anguish. 

“How what?” she asked, brushing her son’s hair.

“How can you forgive him?  How can you . . .” He gestured at them again, frustrated and confused by what he saw. 

“Because he’s my son,” she said.  “Sometimes family is all you have, in the end.”  She nodded down at her son’s face.  “He’ll know that, someday, and he’ll have time then to dwell on what he’s done.  But right now he’s trying to keep us safe, all of us, the whole nation, John.  A mother could hardly be prouder of her son.”

It was awful, really.  It was awful to watch this, the surrender of love, how much it could hurt and devastate a heart, because under her compassion John could see Mummy clearly: she missed her Sherrinford, so much, so _desperately_ much that she couldn’t even speak his name and hadn’t been able to look Ramsay, his son, in the face until now.  She was living as best as she could.  She was forgiving with everything she had.  And there could be no greater example of love than that.

John turned away from both of them and moved into the next room, where Sherlock and his father were sitting in chairs opposite to each other, regarding the fire and drinking brandy in total silence.  Ramsay was on the soft sofa, watching videos or playing video games or whatever it was that kept him so absorbed in his mobile.

John fell to his knees before Sherlock, which startled him.  He clumsily placed his brandy on the small table by the chair and examined his doctor with his prismatic eyes.  “John, are you alright?”

John beamed at him.  “Better than.  Sherlock, I forgive you.”

“Right, excuse me,” Mr. Holmes said softly, rising without ceremony from his chair and turning away to locate his wife.

“John?” Sherlock asked.  John saw that Sherlock’s hands were fluttering, moving from his legs to his lap, so John caught them in his own.

“I forgive you.  I forgive you for using my laptop, and never doing the shopping—”

“I’ve done the shopping,” Sherlock interrupted gracelessly.

“Shut up, you tit.  Let me get this out, right?”  Sherlock nodded, and John went on.  “I forgive you for getting me kidnapped over and over, and dragging me into life-threatening situations regularly, and never eating the food I make for you.  I forgive you for never letting me have a girlfriend, then _dying_ to give me the chance to find one, but leaving me without you—God, that, Sherlock, not a bit good—then coming back right in the middle of a marriage proposal, and not being a good enough detective to notice that I was proposing to an assassin—who may end up hunting us after a few years, heads-up there, mate—then letting me marry and letting her shoot me then letting Mycroft almost talk you into leaving me forever, for real this time.  God, Sherlock, I forgive you.”

Sherlock looked confused, but it might also have been devastated and heartbroken—after a certain amount of sentiment in a day his expressions started to run together in a disconcerting, _I’ve broken my detecting machine_ way.  John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hands.  “I forgive you those things because I _love_ those things, because I love you, and you wouldn’t be _you_ without all of that to forgive.  Does that—do you understand any of that?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, thought about it, then opened his eyes again and nodded.  “Like my mother and Mycroft in the other room.”

John blinked.  “You . . .you _heard_ all that?”

“Of course I did, John.  My father showed me a very long time ago how to be quiet in here so I could eavesdrop on all the other rooms.”

John blanched, blinked—then laughed.  “Right.  Of course.  Right.”

“Is this another thing I do that you’ll be forced to forgive me for?” Sherlock asked, his eyes scornful—before he dissolved in a fit of giggles.

“Nutter,” John whispered as he leaned forward and stole a kiss.  “Marry me, you nutter.”

Sherlock smiled softly at him and nodded.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

They embraced, completely oblivious—again—that Ramsay was nearby, filming everything with a giant smile on his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By all rights, this should have been two chapters. I thought I'd gotten to the end when the rest of the family got noisy and indignant. That's how a writer ends up smashing together a layer cake of smut and a very protective Mummy. Awkward.
> 
> I've left this open to a sequel (for when Mary gets bored), but I have no idea if I'll ever actually pursue that.
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you've liked it, please leave me a quick hello/comment to say so. I needs them. They're preciousssss.
> 
> Also, you can find me on Tumblr at http://sherlockwho-itsme.tumblr.com. xoxo SW


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